


le sex-appeal de la policière

by theviolonist



Category: Rush (TV), Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The driver is... not the drunk fratboy Stella was expecting. She's tall, with black hair and arm tattoos and okay, this is someone Stella would definitely want to put cuffs on in a more private context. </p>
            </blockquote>





	le sex-appeal de la policière

Stella likes Dom, she really does. But if he doesn't stop complaining about his fucking kid, Stella is going to stop considering crashing the car into that nice-looking wall over there and actually do it. Death sounds infinitely more appealing than another story about diapers right now. 

She's in the process of thinking of something mean that will shut him up when a car whirs past them, music booming from the open window. The car is sleek, black and somewhat flashy in an underhanded way, exactly the type of thing that Franky is into when she's not on shift. But she _is_ on shift, and she loves putting assholes behind bars, so that works out for everyone. Besides, if it will get Dom to stop ranting about his kid's diarrhea problem which Stella didn't need or want to know about, she's all for it.

She opens her com, turning on the siren with a practiced hand. Dom looks mildly annoyed. "Leon, we've got a runner. Alpha Tango Omega 543. Possible Code 46."

Leon's laugh crackles in the com. "Off you go, little duck."

Which Stella is more than happy to do. She crushes her foot on the accelerator and follows the car, alarm blaring, following Leon's instructions mechanically as Dom frowns around his sandwich. The music streams to her. Stella rolls her eyes. _Bad Girls_ , seriously?

The driver is good, reckless and fast, but Stella is good, police and pissed-off, so really it evens out. She doesn't get to see their face, though, only a flash of black hair as they take incredibly tight turns, tires fuming on the asphalt. 

It takes a while, Stella's adrenaline level steadily rising up, but eventually they corner the car with the help of the local police. They don't exactly look happy that someone disturbed their Tuesday night nap. Stella yells a half-assed thank you (it's not exactly a secret that serving and protecting is much more glorious when it doesn't involve sitting around in an inert Melbourne on a weeknight when you could be home fucking someone or having a warm bath) and turns off the alarm. 

"Get out of the car!" she yells, brandishing her gun. Nope, that never gets old. Dom actually sets his sandwich down and gets behind her, gun raised. "Turn off the music." The music stops. "Now turn the engine off and get out of the car. Hands out the window."

The driver is... not the drunk fratboy Stella was expecting. She's tall, with black hair and arm tattoos and okay, this is someone Stella would definitely want to put cuffs on in a more private context. 

She clears her throat, distracted for a second. The driver smirks at her, as though she knew exactly what was going in Stella's head. 

Stella scowls. "Hands out the window! Now open the car door, and get on the ground."

The driver obeys, still smirking. God, it's irritating. And hot. "Sure you don't want me to get on my knees,  _officer_?"

Stella can feel Dom's eyebrows rising behind her, and one of the jerks from the Melbourne police sniggers loudly. Stella walks over to the driver, crouching next to her so she can cuff her. The driver looks at her and winks. This is going to be a long night.

*

Franky - Franky Doyle, that's her name, according to her ID - isn't the most annoying prisoner Stella's ever had to deal with, but it's a close call. She keeps nagging Stella all the way to the station, making less and less subtle innuendos and staring at her unnervingly in the rearview mirror. When they finally get there Dom rushes off to phone Denise so they can talk about pacifiers or whatever the fuck it is babies are all about, and of course Stella is left to conduct the interrogation alone. 

She sighs, sitting opposite Franky at the table. Franky smiles at her, picks up a pen on the table and starts playing with it. The pen loops easily between her long, agile fingers. It's distracting. 

Stella clears her throat. "Was that your car?"

Franky shrugs. "A friend lent it to me."

"Does this friend have a name?"

Franky tilts her head, like she's finding all this incredibly amusing. "What about I tell you her name, and you tell me yours?"

Stella gives her an unimpressed look. "What about you give me that name and I don't leave you rotting in a cell for the night?"

Franky barks out a laugh, making a slight hissing sound with her teeth. She looks like she might say something like 'easy tiger' but she decides against it, probably for her own good.

"Erica Davidson."

Stella writes down the name. "Is she aware that she lent you her car?"

Franky sprawls on the chair, her legs splaying open. She's still touching that fucking pen. Stella's gaze drifts down to her thighs, which was obviously a mistake because when she looks up Franky's smirk is back firmly in place. "She probably is by now," she says. 

Stella has to take a second to remember what the question was. Right. The car. Focus and professionalism.

"I'm going to call her. We'll see what she says."

Franky laughs again. "You do that."

The night goes by easily enough after that. Miss Davidson doesn't sound exactly pleased about her car but doesn't want to press charges, and Franky isn't actually drunk or high on anything, so they just saddle her with a fine and a warning and Stella gets to watch her swagger out of the station, her hands deep in her pockets. She turns around to grin at Stella, gives a mocking two-fingered salute. 

"Sleep tight, constable," she tosses, her eyes mischievous. "Dream of me."

Stella doesn't bother to respond. 

*

That should've been it. If the world were a fair place, that should've been it, a boring patrol night spiced up by a particularly attractive one-night arrest with a nice car and a nicer smile.

But the world isn't a fair place, otherwise Stella would be out of a job, and when she follows Leon's directions the next week for a domestic, she pulls over and here is Franky Doyle, standing handcuffed in front of the small, white house with a split lip and a slightly thunderous look in her eyes. 

Stella sighs. She turns to Michael, who's checking Franky out as subtly as ever, and asks, "What'd she do?"

Michael shrugs. "Domestic. This house belongs to a Miss..." he checks his pad, "Davidson, Erica. When we got here they were hurling kitchen appliances at one another."

Franky smirks at Stella, waving her handcuffed hands at her. "I guess I've been bad, officer."

Stella raises an eyebrow. "Don't even try that shit on me."

How does she end up being the one to drive Franky home, she doesn't know. Leon informs her that she did time, seven years, for grievous assault, so it's probably better that she cool off in her own house; the next thing Stella knows Franky's in the back seat, staring holes at the back of Stella's neck. It's the end of her shift, so she's not partnering up with anyone. After she drops Franky off she's going home and having a long, nice bath, preferably with wine and one of those shitty lesbian novels Alana left behind when they broke up. 

"So what's your name, then?" Franky asks after a while of driving in tense silence. "You know mine."

"Stella," Stella says, purely to make her shut up. She swears. 

"Stella," the name rolls on Frankys' tongue, somehow ten times dirtier than it usually sounds. "Nice name."

Stella doesn't answer. 

After what seems like an eternity they get to Franky's building. She gets out of the car and immediately leans over the half-opened window on the passenger side, grinning. 

"Thanks for the ride, Stella," she drawls. She gets a scrap of paper out of her bra - out of her bra! Who does that and doesn't look ridiculous? Franky fucking Doyle, apparently - and tosses it on the passenger seat. "Give me a call when you want me to return the favor."

"I'm not keeping that," Stella says, but Franky's already gone.

(She might put the number in her wallet anyway, but that's purely for police reasons. Very important police reasons.)

*

Stella doesn't get drunk a lot. 

Okay, no, that's a lie. Stella does get drunk a lot, but usually she's not alone at the bar with a pounding headache because fucking _Kerry_ decided she had to rest. Stella didn't even get shot. Sure, the bullet grazed her and her patrol car exploded, and she might have a concussion, but that happens every day. Often. Sometimes. 

Stella is seriously considering getting another double vodka and calling Kerry to tell her exactly what she thinks of her fucking _rest_ when someone leans on the counter next to her. 

"Constable," the voice teases. Stella looks over and sighs. Franky Doyle. Right, because tonight wasn't crap enough already. "Fancy meeting you here."

Avoidance is the best road. If Stella pretends not to see her, she will go away. Right? 

Wrong, apparently. Franky appears completely unfazed when Stella returns to her drink, actually drags a stool and sits, signaling to the bartender for a drink of her own. Did she - did she just _wink_ at the bartender? People like that don't really exist. 

Resigned to the fact that they're going to have a conversation, at least while Stella finishes her drink (she's not wasting five dollars of perfectly good vodka because a _convict_ decided to make her her pet project, thank you), she sneaks a look at her. Somehow, she looks even better than last time. Her eyes are ringed black with make-up, her jeans hug her ass and Stella doesn't like tank tops on women, except, apparently, on Franky Doyle. Fuck her life, seriously. 

Franky takes a sip of her drink. "You didn't call," she says, angling a cocky smile at Stella. "I'm hurt."

"And not taking the hint, apparently."

She can be rude if she wants to. She's on forced fucking _rest_. Besides, she's not doing this. _This_ is a bad, bad idea. Then again -

Franky touches Stella's wrist. It's not invasive, just a testing sort of touch, yes or no. Stella's blood races, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. Maybe she can't handle her liquor as well as she thought after all.

Franky's eyes screw into hers, dark and intent. "Wanna dance?" she asks. 

Stella knocks back the rest of her drink. She's really never been good with impulse control, she should work on that. 

She hooks a finger on the strap of Franky's tank top, wondering idly just how far down that breast tattoo goes. When their mouths crash together Franky tastes like danger and stroboscopic lights. 

Eventually Stella pulls away, holding back a smile as Franky tilts her head, mockingly impressed. "Sure," she says, licking her lips. "Yours or mine?"

*

"I'm not going to - oof," Stella groans as her back hits the wall of Franky's flat. She can't see really well in the dark, but it doesn't look like there's any cocaine and/or stolen organs lying around, which is good. What is it with her and criminals, anyway? "I'm not going to have my car keyed by your Miss Davidson, am I?"

Franky pulls away from where she'd been working a pretty impressive hickey on Stella's neck. Stella almost whines at the lack of feeling. "Can't guarantee that," Franky says with a grin, her hands flying to Stella's belt, and oh, Stella likes that. She likes that very much. "What about you? You were muttering about your boss when I arrived," she works open the button of Stella's jeans, her fingers brushing deliciously against Stella's crotch, "looks like you two are close."

Stella threads her fingers into Franky's hair and _pulls_. "Shut up."

Franky doesn't protest when Stella pushes to her knees. She makes a quick work of Stella's jeans, hooking one of Stella's leg over shoulders as soon as they're off. Stella is still drunk enough to pretend she doesn't realize what a horrible, horrible idea that is, so she only laughs, hoarse and more turned-on than anything else, when Franky starts kissing and biting her way up her thigh.

She gets frustrated after a few seconds, though, because Stella likes her sex deep and dirty and without too much foreplay. Especially tonight. Tonight the fuck-hard-and-pass-out kind of sex look particularly enticing. 

She looks down, scowling. "You gonna get to it any time soon?"

Franky's smirk sends heat pooling in Stella's stomach. She tilts her head, mockingly chiding. "Now now," she teases.

She darts out her tongue, pushes out Stella's underwear and okay, she's _getting to it_ alright. Stella startles a little, and Franky chuckles against her clit, blunt nails digging into the flesh at Stella's hip. This is not a horrible idea at all. In fact, this is a great idea. Definitely in the top five of the best ideas Stella's ever had. 

"Fuck," she hisses.

Kerry can go to hell with her rest bullshit. 

After a while of licking and lapping and other things Stella might takes notes on were she in a different situation, Franky replaces her tongue by her fingers; Stella's thigh trembles a little on Franky's shoulder and Franky looks up at her, her chin wet. She keeps their eyes locked as she fingers Stella to her orgasm, keeping the rhythm steady and strong, pinching Stella's thigh when her eyelids threaten to drop closed. It's... intense, not to mention Franky's still entirely dressed, which probably shouldn't be hot but really, really is.

It's also strangely sweet, like Franky's being careful, which is usually really infuriating because Stella can take care of herself but right now... it's nice. Not a lot of people would call getting fingered against a wall _nice_ , but it is, and Stella needs people to be nice to her sometimes instead of shooting at her, yelling and just being generally awful and stupid. She moans. Franky's hand snakes under the silky fabric of her top and she cups Stella's breast with her palm, rolling the nipple between her fingers. 

Stella bites her lip when she comes. She's never been the type of person who shouts their partner's name, which has avoided her many an awkward situation during drunken one-night stands like this one. Franky doesn't seem to mind, though, only braces Stella's thigh more securely on her shoulder when Stella sags against the wall, so that she doesn't actually fall on her ass on the ground. A broken coccyx isn't exactly what Stella has in mind for the rest of the night. 

She slides down the wall, leaning against it with heavy eyelids. She tends to get drowsy after sex, but there's no way she's not making the most of tonight, especially since it's never, ever going to happen again, because Stella is a professional and Michael is the kind of person who does this kind of thing (and usually has karma come back to bite him in the ass, which Stella greatly enjoys mocking him for), not her. 

Franky gets on her knees. Stella snorts when she gets a better look at her tattoo, the naked bust of a woman surrounded with a lot of useless crap. Seriously, it looks like something from a bad gangster movie. 

"Subtle," she cocks her head to it. 

Franky grins and shrugs unashamedly, _what can I say_. She leans forwards, resting her palms on the carpet. Stella is aware of what she must look like, naked from the waist down with her legs splayed open, but she doesn't really care - she leans in to meet Franky halfway, the kiss hot and somewhat boozy still. Franky braces her hands against Stella's back and draws her close. Stella moans softly when her clit rubs against the cloth of Franky's jeans. It's not unpleasant, it's just... a lot. But Stella likes a lot. In fact, tonight she wouldn't mind _too much_ , if that could make her forget Kerry and the way she seems to think she's the only one who knows what's good for Stella and how annoying that is, except when it's hot, which is somehow even worse. 

She squirms a little in Franky's lap, resting her arms on Franky's shoulders to kiss her again, this time with more tongue and teeth and everything, a real cannibal kiss like the ones Stella fantasized about when she was in college. 

She pulls away after a while. Franky's mouth is red but she doesn't look half as breathless as Stella feels. How does she always look so composed? It's infuriating. Stella pushes Franky backwards. She rests her elbows on the ground, thank god for the carpet, and slides her hand under Stella's bare ass as she inches forward.

"Come here," she says, her voice husky and raw. That line _never_ works on Stella. Ever.

Except now, apparently. 

The tank top is quickly done with, as is the sports bra, and Stella would laugh about how everything Franky's wearing is basically textbook lesbian if she wasn't too busy taking one of Franky's nipple in her mouth and going at it a little more aggressively that she usually does. Oops. Blame it on the alcohol, right? 

Not that Franky minds, really. She doesn't make any noise - definitely not a screamer, which isn't exactly surprising - but when Stella looks up she's breathing heavy, looking down at Stella through thick black lashes. She quirks an eyebrow, licks her lips.

Stella works the jeans off her. She rolls her eyes at the boxers, but Franky looks especially good like that, laying on her carpet, her hair messy and her lips red. Stella wriggles to position herself between Franky's thighs, licking down her weird Japanese-looking tattoo. Stella's seen enough street kids to know it's probably hiding something (Stella would bet money on cigarette burns), but she's not going to remark on it. It starts just under her right breast and ends down low, dipping under her boxers.

Franky groans when Stella laps at the dip of her hip.

"Hold still," Stella says, and then she rolls them over so she can plaster herself to Franky's back, Franky's face half-mushed into the carpet. Franky doesn't look like she particularly enjoys that, a top through and through, and she rises on her elbows again. As soon as Stella's fingers rub against her clit, though, she goes slack, her eyes heavy and unfocused. Her teeth clasp on her teeth. Stella bites her shoulder, satisfied. 

"Here you go," she says, mocking, imitating Franky's tone from earlier.

That annoys Franky just enough for her to squirm on Stella's fingers and turn around. For a second she heaves over Stella, her breath coming out in pants, rushed, her legs open; Stella watches her own hand working under the cloth of Franky's boxers and wow, okay, that is working for her more than she thought it would. Franky backs them up against the wall again and braces her hand on there. Her hair touches the top of Stella's head; her chest is heaving, dotted with sweat, her nipples peaked and hard. 

"Come on," she urges, her voice rough. 

And, well, Stella can't exactly say no, can she? Franky is already wet, probably from eating Stella out - she did look like she was enjoying it a lot - and she moves soundlessly above Stella, moving her hips slowly but deliberately, following the rhythm Stella sets from under her. Their breathing is the only sound in the room. For the longest time Stella pretended she didn't like sex like that, rushed and dirty and almost anonymous, because she was a good Christian and mostly only into guys. Look at her now.

"Harder," Franky says, opening her eyes for a second and catching Stella's. They're disturbingly intense; she knows what she wants and Stella suspects that she wants to _hurt_ \- probably something to do with that Erica Davidson from the other day, but it's not like Stella's going to ask.

She obliges. Franky writhes, making no other sound than a few pained-sounding groans; when she comes she presses her forehead against the wall and Stella's face ends up mashed against her stomach. It's not entirely unpleasant. She must've worked out in prison, because she's ripped. Stella licks over her abs, somewhat distractedly.

Franky laughs, a little exhausted-sounding laugh, and moves back. She stands up, naked except for her tattoos and her soiled boxers, which she promptly steps out of. 

She cracks the joints of her hand and smiles down at Stella. "Shower?"

Stella points her to it. 

In the ten or so minutes it takes for Franky to take her shower, Stella decides a) not to feel guilty about this, b) that she's too classy to kick someone out so soon after a one-night stand, which is good, because c) she wouldn't say no to a second round. 

She slips into the bathroom, glancing to the bed as she does. Maybe they can take this here later. Make the best of a shitty situation, right? 

*

Stella is both unsurprised and relieved to wake up alone in her bed the morning after.

She does, however, find a scrawled note on her kitchen table, which simply reads, _thanks_. Stella throws it out and gulps down an Aspirin with her orange juice. Fuck hangovers, seriously. They should be outlawed or something. 

Her phone buzzes on the table. Stella takes a look at the caller and sighs. She rests her back against the kitchen counter, counts to three, and picks up. 

"Kerry? Yeah, I'm up." Her fingers come up to her neck, pressing lightly down on the hickey Franky left. It feels huge. God, how is she going to hide it? "No, didn't do anything unadvisable last night."


End file.
